long
rifle, he strode away.

* * *

Nell and Jim walked along the bluff above the river. Twilight was
deepening. The red glow in the west was slowly darkening behind the
boldly defined hills.

"So it's all settled, Jim, that we stay here," said Nell.

"Yes, dear. Colonel Zane has offered me work, and a church besides.
We are very fortunate, and should be contented. I am happy because
you're my wife, and yet I am sad when I think of--him. Poor Joe!"

"Don't you ever think we--we wronged him?" whispered Nell.

"No, he wished it. I think he knew how he would end. No, we did not
wrong him; we loved him."

"Yes, I loved him--I loved you both," said Nell softly.

"Then let us always think of him as he would have wished."

"Think of him? Think of Joe? I shall never forget. In winter, spring
and summer I shall remember him, but always most in autumn. For I
shall see that beautiful glade with its gorgeous color and the dark,
shaded spring where he lies asleep."

* * *

The years rolled by with their changing seasons; every autumn the
golden flowers bloomed richly, and the colored leaves fell softly
upon the amber moss in the glade of Beautiful Spring.

The Indians camped there no more; they shunned the glade and called
it the Haunted Spring. They said the spirit of a white dog ran there
at night, and the Wind-of-Death mourned over the lonely spot.

At long intervals an Indian chief of lofty frame and dark, powerful
face stalked into the glade to stand for many moments silent and
motionless.

And sometimes at twilight when the red glow of the sun had faded to
gray, a stalwart hunter slipped like a shadow out of the thicket,
and leaned upon a long, black rifle while he gazed sadly into the
dark spring, and listened to the sad murmur of the waterfall. The
twilight deepened while he stood motionless. The leaves fell into
the water with a soft splash, a whippoorwill caroled his melancholy
song.

From the gloom of the forest came a low sigh which swelled
thrillingly upon the quiet air, and then died away like the wailing
of the night wind.

Quiet reigned once more over the dark, murky grave of the boy who
gave his love and his life to the wilderness.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Spirit of the Border, by Zane Grey

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER ***

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